The Killing Curse
by Kaluki
Summary: The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. AU
1. Avada Kedavra

**Story Stats**

**Title: **The Killing Curse

**Timeline: **Throughout _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone_

**Summary: **The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter not mine.

**Chapter Stats**

**Timeline: **Halloween at a year old, general childhood approximately six years old.

**Summary: **Mostly prologue, setting the scene and providing explanation.

**A/N: **Had this idea in my head for a while, finally got around to writing it. Got most of the first year sorted, and I'll try to update as regularly as I can. The story will move quite fast, focusing mainly on major events and filling in the inbetween times.

_Muse: _A fickle beast, rarely tamed and only loyal in that they never affect anyone other than their chosen victim. Whether they chose to appear to their victim or spend all their time vacationing in Greenland is entirely their own choice, and they often enjoy torturing their victim by staying just out of reach. The muse has known to cooperate to a greater extent when fed, and lives on a diet of reviews.

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Avada Kedavra

"_Avada Kedavra."_

The killing curse flew from the wand with an almost joyful anticipation, striking its target with a flash of emerald light. It passed through the body with nothing but a spiritual sneer for the pulsing blood, the living flesh, the weakness of a physical existence. It barely registered the soul as it tore through the ethereal mist – its job was to mutilate the soul of the one who had cast it, and it had fulfilled that task already. Finally, it raced eagerly to the life and core of the victim, building power as it traversed the immeasurable distance of the baby's self in mere nanoseconds, the thin, young sapling before it only a hair's breadth away –

- And stopped dead, halted by a towering force. It would have circled the strange, ghostly emotion warily, if it were not too surprised – if a curse can feel surprise – and if it were in its deadly nature to do so. Death rides fast, borne swifter on the wings of hate… it scattered, reflected by a power strong enough to halt the most powerful spell in existence and send it reeling back to sink into a deep pool of untamed, untapped magic filled with the innocence only a baby knows.

But magic can't be killed; it's not alive. Every spell, every curse or charm exists for ever; even the raw magic a wizard contains when he dies does not deign to follow its one time master into death, but merges with the natural magic of the earth and nature.

But what to do? It could not crawl back to the one who cast it like a meek servant awaiting punishment – it was an unforgivable, such things were not done. Yet it could not destroy the castor, or it would have done so as the foolish wizard thought to harness the deadly power it was made of.

The child's magic stirred around him, angry at the intrusion, raising tendrils and waves in agitation. The Killing Curse feels nothing but the anticipation of death, so it felt no joy or satisfaction as it leant the child's power its own form and watched impassively through young eyes as its castor paid the price for failure. It felt no resolution or determination as it settled deeper into the well of magic, sinking roots of its own in the power to subtly change the wild power. It felt no possessiveness as its new host's eyes flashed emerald green, windows to a deadly soul betraying its secret. It felt only anticipation that would span the years until it once again found the chance to destroy its new victim.

The self proclaimed Dark Lord would not fail to be killed as he had failed to kill.

---

Dumbledore frowned slightly as he took the small, sleeping bundle from Hagrid, scanning the child silently with his magic. He thought he detected something, some trace of Dark magic buried deep within the boy saviour… But no, he must have been imagining it. What he could not imagine or mistake was the protections of love from the late Lily Potter. Dumbledore smiled – the wizarding world's prophecy child would be safely protected with his aunt's family. He tucked the letter into the cloth young Harry was wrapped in, and placed him carefully on the doorstep.

"Good luck, Harry," Minerva whispered while Hagrid blew loudly into a table cloth masquerading as a handkerchief. Dumbledore smiled serenely, took a few steps to clear the apparating wards, and disappeared.

---

Harry was six when he first discovered that what he did and who he was were unacceptable, wrong and freakish. For some unfathomable reason his aunt had decided to cut his hair, muttering about the neighbours and appearances and unruly messiness all the while. His 'new look' had been quite neat, his black hair reduced to a short fuzz around his head that wasn't long enough to tangle.

Respecting his aunt's wishes, Harry dutifully memorised this new image of himself, turning his head in the mirror to see all angles while she looked on with satisfaction. He even practised the new haircut, to make sure he got it absolutely perfect when his aunt needed him to. Unfortunately, that was where the problem lay.

She squeaked when he shook his head suddenly, the black fuzz lengthening suddenly back to its old, messy length, brushing the base of his neck and falling in his clear green eyes. When he transformed it back to the fuzz and turned to her for approval, she could do nothing but shriek, throw the kitchen scissors at him in shock and flee the room in terror.

Harry frowned. Obviously, she didn't want the fuzz at the moment. She must have just wanted him to learn it. He let his hair grow long again happily, and carefully returned the scissors to a drawer.

The next fortnight was perhaps the longest of Harry's life, locked in the cupboard with no food and only the smell of blood and the pain of his injuries to keep him company. It was the first time he was _really_ punished – but that was to be expected. The punishment for having and using 'freakishness' was logically worse than the punishment for simply existing, after all.

After a while though, Harry began to get tired of being punished, tired of not knowing what he was doing wrong. If he wanted something, he fetched it – a perfectly normal and instinctive reaction as far as he was concerned, but his uncle had confiscated the jumper in question and burned it, muttering all the while about levitating, flying items of clothing and freakishness contamination. When Dudley wanted something, he wailed until it was passed to him, and the item was never burned.

Harry tried to explain to them once, that if they just told him what was allowed and what wasn't, then he'd obey them. But the only reply he got was more of the same: "Freakishness." Harry was confused, scared of punishment, and increasingly angry. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly hateful, he felt something seem to stir inside him – something cold and chilling. It never did more than that though, no matter how much Harry sometimes wished he could channel the strange feeling of complete power it gave him. Not yet, he thought. But someday he'd be able to.

And oh, how he looked forwards to that day.

---

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Feed the muse!! 


	2. Goodbye, Good Riddance

**Story Stats**

**Title: **The Killing Curse

**Timeline: **Throughout _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone_

**Summary: **The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter not mine.

**Chapter Stats**

**Timeline: **Summer before first year, late July.

**Summary: **It's the letter!

**A/N: **Wow, reviews! Thank you to everyone! About the Hermione/Ron issue – I find it really hard to imagine Ron being friends with a Slytherin Harry – with any Slytherin, when it comes to it. I have seen it written, and sometimes it does work very well, but I don't think I'm that good a writer. I'll try to keep Ron bashing to a minimum though. As this chapter shows though, Hermione's a whole different kettle of fish…

Thank you to LaughableBlackStorm, ESP, LiYinBlake, Barranca (Dursley bashing will occur later on, have no fear…) and pAge-bReaTher for support and reviews! Yay!

_Muse: _A fickle beast, rarely tamed and only loyal in that they never affect anyone other than their chosen victim. Whether they chose to appear to their victim or spend all their time vacationing in Greenland is entirely their own choice, and they often enjoy torturing their victim by staying just out of reach. The muse has known to cooperate to a greater extent when fed, and lives on a diet of reviews.

Goodbye, Good Riddance

"Up!" a shrill voice shrieked, breaking through Harry's dreams. He groaned and rolled over, trying to block out the sounds of his aunt hammering on the cupboard door. "Up, boy!"

"I'm up!" he yelled to placate the annoying woman, barely restraining himself from making the wood of the door burn her knuckles. He'd done it only once before, when she'd woken him up from a bad dream. If it weren't for his strangely advanced healing powers, he doubted he'd still have all his limbs after the punishment his uncle dealt him.

He arrived in the kitchen a few minutes later, running his fingers through his shoulder length hair, grinning inwardly as he saw his aunt's lips tighten at the coal black mess. It was far more satisfying than keeping it short, at any rate.

"Get the post boy," his uncle ordered as Harry served him three rashers of bacon, two sausages and a fried egg, sunny side up. Harry wondered absently if his 'family' even knew he had a name. Maybe he should start calling himself Elspeth and see if they noticed.

He sorted through the letters as he came back into the kitchen. A post card, a brown envelope that looked like a bill of some sort – he hoped it was expensive – and a strange letter, written on thick parchment in emerald green ink. Even stranger, it was written to Harry. Or rather, to a Mr. H Potter.

Harry was so absorbed by his letter he didn't even notice Dudley staring at him until his cousin snatched the parchment out of his hand, yelling, "Dad! Dad, Harry got a letter!"

"Give it back!" Harry commanded, enforcing his words as much as he could. Dudley faltered, looking at him with a confused half glazed expression and almost holding the letter out towards him. His uncle intercepted it on the way though, with a derogatory laugh.

"Who'd be writing to _you?_" he sneered at Harry. Harry fumed furiously, then watched in surprise as the man's normally ruddy face drained of colour. Harry held out his hand, grinning in satisfaction as the letter tore out of his uncle's clutching fingers and sailed neatly into his grasp.

"Obviously someone _you_ don't want me to know about," he answered smugly before turning on his heel and retreating strategically to his cupboard, where he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. For some reason, none of his 'family' could pass the threshold of the tiny space – it was like a glass wall that only allowed Harry or Harry friendly items through.

He turned the strange letter over in his hands, noticing the foreign wax seal on the reverse. He ran his fingers over it, searching for information about the crest by its feel and texture. It was smooth and perfectly accurate, dead centre in the wax as if cast by a brand new, mint condition machine, but at the same time worn with the ease of habit, as if it had been stamped many times before. The details on it were so fine Harry couldn't even feel the full extent of them, down to the scales on the curling snake and the tiny claws of the rampant lion. It almost didn't feel like wax, it was so realistic, and Harry could've sworn the snake shivered under his touch.

Intrigued, Harry slid his fingers deftly under the seal and opened the letter. Inside there was more of the same heavy parchment as the envelope, but the words were enough to make Harry's eyes almost fall out of his head.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?_ Harry frowned. _We await your owl…_ It made no sense, it was so far fetched it had to be some sort of prank. But who would play such a prank on him? He had no friends at school – Dudley had seen to that – and none of the bullies, Dudley included, had enough brains to set up something this elaborate and genuine. Besides, unless his uncle had suddenly become a world class actor, he'd been shocked and scared by the letter.

Mind made up, Harry stalked out of the cupboard, the letter clutched in one hand. "What is this?" he asked his family in an easy, light tone that didn't fool them for a second. He waited until their stubborn silence began to grate on his nerves, then continued in a voice that, while still perfectly amiable, held undercurrents of threat and warning. "Where did it come from?"

His uncle kept his mouth shut so tightly the fat seemed to bulge around his chin, but his aunt quailed. "Freak school," she replied in a high, thin voice. "Where your parents went." Harry perked up at that last bit of information, but was stopped from responding by a furious outburst from his uncle.

"We've tried to protect you from it your whole life, boy," he all but growled, ignoring Harry's snort at the idea that they were protecting him. "But you go there, and you'll never be welcome here again."

"When was I ever welcome here?" Harry asked rhetorically. His mind was whirling – 'Freak school' must mean 'magic school', and if he were to believe his aunt then his parents were magical! And that would make him the son of a witch and a wizard. Harry grinned inwardly at that. This was the chance of a life time – to leave his relatives behind him and never turn back, to learn more about his powers, and to see an entirely new world! At least, he supposed it must be a new world as he'd never heard any mention of Hogwarts before. Or magic.

If he had stopped to actually consider what it was he was doing, Harry probably wouldn't have made the decision he did. As it was, he was too elated by the prospect of his new life that he simply waved his hand to call a backpack from Dudley's second bedroom, and whistled as he began packing it with everything he owned from his cupboard. It fit easily into the slightly tatty bag.

He didn't even bother to say goodbye to the Dursleys, just grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl that only his aunt ever touched, and strode confidently out the door, his blood and power humming with anticipation. They watched him go in stunned silence, too shocked to even close the front door he'd left blowing in breeze in a final act of defiance.

-

Harry leaned back on the bench, bored out of his mind. For the past three hours he'd been moving around the park, sifting lightly through the ocean of thoughts surrounding him in search for anything magical. So far the closest he had come was a man considering whether to hire a clown or a magician for his daughter's birthday party.

The raven haired boy sighed irritably. "I could've at least grabbed some money before I left," he muttered to himself. "But noooo, I had to make a dramatic exit with all arrogance blazing." He looked around at the people passing, his attention held for a second by an old lady telling one of her friends about an owl she'd seen. Oh wait, that was in 1982 when the lady was in Canada. "Man, I'm such an idiot," Harry groaned.

He briefly considered just packing it all in and going back to the Dursleys with an apology, but discarded the thought. He wouldn't crawl back to his hateful family like a meek servant awaiting punishment – something about the whole idea made him feel sick. If he was going to get only one thing out of the whole episode he wanted it to be that he'd never see them again. Ever.

He slid the letter out of his pocket again, reading through it and the accompanying list of school supplies. How useless were these wizards anyway? If they were so all knowing and powerful to send the letter to his cupboard, why didn't they know that he had no money? Or no idea where to buy this stuff? Or how to even get to Hogwarts if he did manage to get what he needed?

Suddenly a thought behind him made Harry spin so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. He ignored the startled glances of people passing in the park, and fixed his mind on a man walking towards the edge of the park.

… _always thought she was special, our little girl, but who'd have thought? A witch! A witch in the family, and she's so happy about it too. What date was it again? Next Saturday – that's right, at nine o clock. Suppose it makes sense not to go shopping on a Sunday. Just imagine what the place will be like! And the things to buy! A wand, a cauldron… Oh, but she'll be most interested in the books, won't she? My my, a witch in the family…_

Harry stood and followed the man at a quick pace, carefully withdrawing from his excited mind – he knew that he'd hate to have some stranger eavesdropping on his thoughts, and didn't want to pry more than he had to. From what he'd heard, they must be like him – they didn't have the first clue about any of the magical world before the letter came, but they seemed to be waiting for someone to come and explain it. He wondered why no one had come to explain to him, but dismissed that as unimportant.

Harry followed the man onto a crowded bus, where he had to once again latch onto his thoughts to make sure he got off at the right stop, though this time he sifted through the man's mind rather than listening in, passing through with such a light touch that he'd only hear the phrases he was looking for.

He paused when the man strode confidently up to a medium sized suburban house and unlocked the door, considering his next move. What he wanted was for the man to let him tag along for a while, until Saturday at least, so that he knew where everything was. Unfortunately, he doubted he could just go up and say 'Hi! I read your thoughts and realised you had a daughter who was a witch and I'd like to follow you around if you don't mind.' Harry snorted.

But unless he wanted to hang around and then shadow them when they went to the magical world, he had to get himself introduced into and acquainted with the family. Maybe if he tried the sympathy card? The man had seemed like a pretty decent bloke. Harry took a moment to assess his appearance – baggy clothes, worn back pack, thin frame… Hopefully enough to convince them that he had in fact come from a not so good home. With that in mind, Harry hunched his shoulders slightly, and walked hesitantly to the door. He paused, one hand extended to the doorbell as if nervous, then swallowed and pressed the metal button.

The door was opened not by the man, but by a petite woman with frizzy blond hair, tied up securely in a bun. "May I help you?" she asked in a curious voice, glancing round for the shy child's parents. She saw none.

"Hi, um, I'm really sorry to bother you," Harry began, layering his words with truth, shyness and vulnerability. He only hoped it worked – he never bothered to take this sort of role before, because he knew the Dursleys had no sympathy for him anyway. "But, I got this letter –" He dug into the pocket of his oversized jeans and drew out the now rather crumpled Hogwarts letter, "- and my uncle and aunt, they well, theykindathrewmeout," he finished in a rushed small voice. The lady raised her eyebrows at that, her expression softening further. _Now for the bombshell,_ Harry thought grimly and took a shaky breath, tears brimming behind his broken glasses as he resettled the backpack. "Could you… could you help me? Coz – because I feel like I should trust you and that you're like me, or someone's like me, and I don't have anywhere else to go, and I'm scared and please, I won't be any trouble I promise, and – and –"

The woman melted, engulfing the trembling, sobbing child in a warm hug. "Hush now, don't cry child," she said in a soothing voice. Harry burrowed his face into her soft jumper. He hadn't realised how scared and nervous he actually was, but somewhere in his short speech a flood gate inside him had opened up and all his earlier cockiness about leaving the Dursleys had been replaced by panic and fear.

Jane Granger lifted him easily, noticing how light he was, and carried him into the warm, cosy kitchen. She was by nature a warm and trusting person, and the child's obvious plight and unhappiness tugged at her heart. The fact that he'd chosen their house as a place to trust could only be because of her daughter, Hermione, and though she was surprised he could sense the girl's magic she had no other knowledge to dispute the fact. So instead, she took his bag and hung it over the back of his chair, and set about making hot chocolate and tea.

"I'll be back in a second," she promised him as she set the steaming mug down in front of him.

"David," she called when she found her husband talking excitedly with Hermione upstairs. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure," David replied amiably, ruffling his daughter's bushy hair and chuckling at her petulant squeak. "What about?"

Jane beckoned him into their bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind them. "A boy turned up on our doorstep – he's a wizard, like Hermione."

"And?" he asked softly, eyes lighting up with pride at the mention of Hermione's newfound talents.

"His family abandoned him, or threw him. Oh Dave, he's so thin! And he's wearing such old clothes, I think he was really mistreated, and he said he could 'sense' the fact that Hermione's a witch or something so he came to us. What do we do?"

"Uh…" There weren't many things that shocked David into silence, but this just happened to be one of those rare occasions. "You're sure he's telling the truth?"

"David!" Jane exclaimed. "He's a scared, helpless ten year old boy! Besides, he showed me his letter."

"Ok, ok. I'll go down and talk to him."

-

Feed the muse!


	3. Accept me

**Story Stats**

**Title: **The Killing Curse

**Timeline: **Throughout _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone_

**Summary: **The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter not mine.

**Chapter Stats**

**Timeline: **Summer before first year, late July.

**Summary: **The Granger's verdict… Will he stay or will he go?

**A/N: **I have double figures of reviews? Me? Wow… Thankyou people!!!

To ESP: Thanks for you views, though I'm not sure I agree with them all. When I write, I don't (or at least I try not to) simply add something or make something happen 'just because'. Harry's hair is a sign of his rebellion against Petunia, because one of his earliest memories of being punished for his magic was that she wanted to cut his hair. If it really is that offensive (keeping in mind that your definition of ugly might not be the same as mine or someone elses) then it's an easy matter for it to be cut later. Not really critical to the story or to an original Harry.

The Harry attitude: Harry is fiercely independent due to growing up relying on pretty much himself and only himself, something which I think comes across partly in the books. When faced with an ultimatum like that, he will rebel against it – and in this case, he's too caught up in the idea of magic to consider the consequences. The way he handle's the Grangers is thought out as best he can in the situation – in his mind, it's his last hope and has to work. The nervousness etc is partly put on in an effort to be accepted, but partly real because if it doesn't work then he has no idea what to do.

The main point of the new attitude is that Harry is not the same Harry as before. His magic has been always available for him to use and he does so naturally. The Dursley's are scared of him because of this, and it gives Harry some form of control over them, which, as a scared child, he leaps on the opportunity to use. Sound familiar? What I think separated Canon Harry and young Tom Riddle is that Tom had the ability to control his 'friends' and therefore knew he wasn't worthless and below them. Canon Harry did not; strange things happened, he got punished. The Dursley's impressed on him that he was worthless, and that everything they did to him – the chores, the bullying, etc – he deserved. My Harry is more similar to Tom in that respect.

Two dimensional new characters – they've had half a chapter, give them a chance 'k? Though I take your point about being a Molly Weasley personality copy – thanks for pointing that out, and I'll try and make it less similar.

Ron – How would Harry have met them before hand? The whole reason he went to the Grangers is that he has no way of contacting the magical world, of which Ron is a part of. Once Harry had read the letter, Dumbledore wouldn't know to send Hagrid – Hagrid said in the books that Dumbledore knew Harry wasn't getting the letters, but had no idea it was that bad. Maybe Harry did meet Ron, and the story took a different turn – but for this particular story, he met Hermione.

I hope that answers everything, and thanks for being honest. :)

Thank you to FallOutGirls, desartratt, Loxodonta-Magica, SxC sLyThErIn LuVa, enjay8, LittleEar BigEar's sis and lady sakura cosmos for support and reviews! Yay!

_Muse: _A fickle beast, rarely tamed and only loyal in that they never affect anyone other than their chosen victim. Whether they chose to appear to their victim or spend all their time vacationing in Greenland is entirely their own choice, and they often enjoy torturing their victim by staying just out of reach. The muse has known to cooperate to a greater extent when fed, and lives on a diet of reviews.

* * *

Accept me

Harry stared at the mug in his hands, the tantalizing scent of chocolate calming him down, though he could feel that the drink was still too hot. What was he going to do? He'd originally planned on just following them to find out where Diagon Alley was, but he didn't want to do that now. Hell, he'd originally planned on waltzing out of Privet Drive and taking control of his life, but that had _really_ worked out well. His plans had to give way to his needs, and right now he needed… Harry sighed in frustration, burying his face in the crook of his elbow to try and stop the tears that threatened again. He didn't _know_ what he needed.

"Hello. Who are you?" Harry's head shot up like a startled rabbit, to meet curios brown eyes.

"Harry Potter," he croaked, staring at the girl. She must be the one who got the letter to Hogwarts.

"I'm Hermione Granger." She took a mug of tea of the side and sat down opposite him at the table. "Why are you here?"

"My family…" Harry swallowed. "The people I was living with didn't want me, so I left." Hermione nodded as if all that was perfectly normal.

"Stay with us then," she said matter of factly, as if telling him that he should take an umbrella out if it was raining. Harry stared.

"Really?" he squeaked. At that moment Hermione's parents reentered the kitchen. Hermione jumped up.

"Mum, Dad, this is Harry, and he's staying with us from now on, right?" she said in a rush. Her father looked at Harry carefully, as if trying to judge him or somehow read his intentions. The woman who'd been so kind to him earlier opened her mouth to answer Hermione, and from her slight frown Harry doubted it would be warm acceptance. A quick scan of her thoughts revealed that she pitied him – Harry barely suppressed a shudder – but thought he'd be better off with an orphanage, maybe even a the magical world's equivalent of an orphanage.

In panic, Harry sent out a burst or power – _trust me! Love me! Accept me! Keep me!_ The tiny voice of reason and sense in Jane's mind drowned in green, and she smiled warmly.

"Of course he's staying, poppet. Harry, is it?" Harry nodded and smiled shyly in return. He'd have to convince them that they wanted to keep him even without the compulsion; he doubted it would be good for them, and besides, he couldn't always be around – what if they decided he should leave while he was gone?

-

"Harry! Harry, wake up!" Harry groaned and rolled over, batting his hands around his head sleepily. There was a whoosh of air and suddenly the comforting warmth of his duvet was replaced with a shivering cold. "Wake up!" the voice repeated insistently. Harry opened his eyes grudgingly and looked up at Hermione's eager face. Once she saw he was awake she bounced up and threw a pair of black jeans and a dark green shirt at him.

"Hermione!" he protested. She shook her head.

"Nuh uh. Today's the day we go shopping, remember? Stop sleeping and get up! I'll be downstairs having breakfast, 'k?" With that she turned and _danced_ out of the room. Harry groaned again, but sat up and rubbed his eyes.

The guest bedroom of the Granger house was small, but to Harry it was pure luxury. There was a wardrobe, a bed, a chest of draws and even a bookcase, all for himself! He sighed happily and tugged on the clothes Hermione had so kindly handed to him. That was another wonder about living with the Grangers – they'd taken him shopping soon after he came, and, while his selection was relatively small, it was more than he'd ever dreamed of having from the Dursleys.

"Harry! Hurry up!" a voice yelled up the stairs. Harry grinned as settled his new glasses on his nose and hopped out the door, pulling a pair of black socks on as he went. He and Hermione had almost instantly become friends – Harry didn't at all mind submitting to her bossy nature, which was worlds apart from the cold orders Petunia had given him. He felt safe and protected following Hermione, without the shyness or nerves that he thought he would feel.

"_Harry!_ Your toast is going cold!"

-

Arthur Weasley checked the directions on the piece of parchment again, making sure this was indeed the Granger residence. He smiled slightly as he thought of the other muggleborn children he'd taken to Diagon Alley – their faces of wonder and awe always lifted his heart. His smile faltered when he remembered another young wizard who was supposed to be starting Hogwarts this year, and he sighed. Harry Potter was still missing, after a week of intensive search. Dumbledore had even considered resurrecting the old Order of the Phoenix to aid the search.

The truth they had uncovered after questioning the Boy Who Lived's relatives was shocking. Under Veritaserum, they had told how they mistreated the boy for his continued use of 'freakishness' – obviously his accidental magic outbursts. The idea that the saviour of the Wizarding world not only knew nothing about his heritage but had been thrown out – or, in Vernon Dursley's words, 'strutted out like the ungrateful wretch he was,' – it would have incensed the public if Dumbledore had not kept the affair secret.

"May I help?" a soft voice asked as the front door was open. Arthur shook his head slightly to clear it and brought up a warm smile for the woman.

"Arthur Weasley," he said, holding out his hand. "I've come on behalf of Hogwarts to show you and your daughter around."

"Mr Weasley, do come in. Hermione's been so excited – hasn't stopped talking about it all week," Jane replied, ushering him into the house with a beaming smile. "I hope you don't mind another one tagging along."

"Another one?" Arthur asked curiously. He'd been told Miss Granger was an only child. "Oh, and call me Arthur, please."

"Of course, Arthur." Jane sighed, running a hand through her frizzy hair. "The poor thing turned up a week ago at our door, with a letter just like she got. Said his family threw him out when they learnt the truth."

Arthur's shocked reply was cut off by an excited voice calling, "Mr Wizard sir, Mr Wizard sir!" Hermione barrelled into him, wrapping small arms around his waist. Arthur laughed, and looked up at the other child standing nervously in the doorway.

The boy was small for his age, and almost startlingly thin. His midnight black hair fell to his shoulders, creating a curtain in front of his pale face between him and rest of the world.

"Hello," he greeted the two children. "My name's Arthur, and I'm the one going to take you shopping in Diagon Alley today."

Hermione dragged Harry forwards. "I'm Hermione Granger, and this is my new brother, Harry Potter," she announced. Arthur stared.

"Harry Potter?" he squeaked finally, not noticing the strange look Jane gave him. The boy – Harry – nodded hesitantly. "Good lord," Arthur breathed out.

-

* * *

Feed the muse! 


	4. Diagon Alley

**Story Stats**

**Title: **The Killing Curse

**Timeline: **Throughout _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone_

**Summary: **The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter not mine.

**Chapter Stats**

**Timeline: **Summer before first year, late July.

**Summary: **Harry learns who he is, and visits Diagon Alley. And Gringotts. But then, that's in Diagon Alley. Bleh.

**A/N: **Evergreen Sceptre: Yep! The spell gives Harry greater control over his magic. I won't go to much into the how and why – that gets explained later on. Yay you!

As for all the other questions… all will be answered! In fact, the wand question will be answered next chapter.

Thank you to Soldier2000, parseltonge girl, Lady Domino, Leyma, 1happyreader, murgel and Heather for support and reviews! Yay!

Oh, and little plug… Lady Domino, dearest sister of mine that she is, has beaten me over the head until I surrender and therefore I now say unto thee go forth and read her stories! Or she shall forever attack me with pickled bananas! There's a link to her profile page in my profile page. Happy, Minno?

_Muse: _A fickle beast, rarely tamed and only loyal in that they never affect anyone other than their chosen victim. Whether they chose to appear to their victim or spend all their time vacationing in Greenland is entirely their own choice, and they often enjoy torturing their victim by staying just out of reach. The muse has known to cooperate to a greater extent when fed, and lives on a diet of reviews.

* * *

Diagon Alley

Harry was silent through the wizard's disjointed explanation of who he was and what he was famous for, carefully blank features showing little emotion. In truth, he didn't know what he felt – awed that he was so important, scared that his parents had been murdered by a Dark Lord, angry that he'd been left with his aunt and uncle despite the fact that he was famous, and through it all a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were hearing the story about someone else.

When Arthur described accidental magic to them, he frowned slightly. Yes, sometimes when he was angry or upset his magic acted out of his control, but that wasn't often. Most of the time using his magic was as natural to him as breathing, and he used it with a barely a conscious thought. He frowned more as Arthur brought out his wand and demonstrated a simple light spell, before announcing that both he and Hermione would be receiving wand at Diagon Alley.

He and Hermione were strangely quiet on the journey there, engrossed in their own thoughts and both slightly daunted by the prospect of what was to come. Finally they stopped in the middle of a bustling street in front of a small, shabby pub that called itself 'The Leaky Cauldron'.

"Here we are," Arthur proclaimed. "Famous place this." Harry looked over the pub and suppressed a snort. Famous place of the wizarding world: small, shabby, poor. Famous person of the wizarding world: small, shabby, poor. He noticed Hermione's parents looking slightly confused and disorientated, but they didn't say anything until the group had passed through the pub and stopped in front of a brick wall out the back while Arthur carefully counted bricks.

All four of them gasped as Arthur stepped back to reveal an archway onto a cobbled, thronging street. "Welcome, to Diagon Alley," the wizard announced quietly.

"Wow," Jane said finally. Harry agreed silently that 'wow' pretty much summed it all up, while David nodded and Hermione looked around apprehensively.

"First stop though, Gringotts – you'll need to change some money into our currency, and Harry, you have an account there you can access."

"I do?" Harry blinked in surprise. _He_, Harry Potter, had money? Would wonders ever cease?

Arthur led them down the street towards a large, snowy white building, pointing out and explaining as much as he could along the way. When they reached the bank, Arthur explained what they wanted.

"Master Potter?" a voice behind him said. Harry turned, and the goblin bowed.

"Griphook will deal with your account with you, Master Potter," the goblin Arthur had talked to said. "Now, Mr Weasley…" Harry didn't hear the rest as he was forced to jog to catch up with Griphook.

They arrived in a small room with a large desk in the centre. The goblin made his way to a cupboard and withdrew a large circular disk with a handprint shape in the centre. "This is a key retriever, Mr Potter," Griphook told him as he set the disk down on the desk. "It works by contact, so if you would be so kind as to lay your hand in the marked place."

Harry held out his hand, noticing as he did so how much smaller it was than the hand print already there. When he pressed down into the surprisingly soft metal – he'd thought it was silver, but no silver acted that way – the original handprint faded, and his own childish mark was left on the disk. White runes glowed softly, the light playing over his hand, and Harry relaxed. If this was magic, this feeling of warmth and belonging, he liked it. Unconsciously he stretched his magic into the material like he had done with the Hogwarts crest on his letter, connecting with it. The surface was smooth and almost liquid, but steady and enduring like a solid. The magic was… Indescribable.

"Please speak your name and the vault you wish to access, Mr Potter."

Harry panicked – what vault? He had no idea! "Uh, Harry James Potter, and um, Potter … vault?"

"It is done, Mr Potter." Harry jolted as the silver seemed to give him a magical equivalent of an electric shock, and removed his hand from the disk. The handprint blazed; when the light died down a small golden key and a larger, also gold key with a ruby set in the handle rested in the centre of the silver disk.

"These," the goblin said, gesturing to the objects, "are the keys to the Potter fortune. Any other copies that were made now no longer exist; you are the sole holder. That one," he pointed to the tiny gold key, "accesses the trust fund your parents left you. It contains money at present and little else. That," he pointed to the larger key with the ruby, "accesses your family and hereditary vault. It contains money, artefacts, books and some spells, as well as the title deeds to some properties."

"Wow," Harry breathed. The goblin looked at him oddly, then continued.

"As you are not yet of age, access to your hereditary vault is limited, and in normal circumstances you will only be permitted to withdraw or deposit in your trust fund vault. Do you have any questions?" Harry shook his head, mind still too caught up on the fact that he was had _money_ to worry about questions. He held the two keys in his hands almost reverently.

"You have a choice, Mr Potter," Griphook stated once he'd returned the key retriever to the cupboard it came from. "You may access your vault now in person, or you may leave this to a later date – although if I were you I would recommend that you link to your trust fund in that case."

"Link?" Harry queried.

"An item, usually a purse or money bag, with direct access to your vault. To one without the key it appears as an ordinary item. While the security on your hereditary vault prevents the creation of such a device, there should be no problem linking to your trust fund."

Harry thought it over. He'd like to see how much money he had and what was in the vaults, but it wasn't really necessary – plus, his parents' heritage felt private in a way Harry wasn't used to. He was unwilling to share that with Hermione or her family, but didn't want the suspicions that could follow if he went in alone and left them behind. "Could I have a linked money bag, please?" he finally asked.

"Certainly," the goblin replied, moving to yet another cabinet. He opened a draw revealing a wide selection of cloth bags, with so many protection and antitheft spells woven into them that Harry's fingers twitched. He chose a simple black bag, made of soft dyed leather and with a silver silk lining. For some reason the simple, neutral colour scheme appealed to him.

It took only a moment for Griphook to link the small key and money bag, and he handed both back to Harry with the instructions: "To make a withdrawal, hold the key in your hand, visualise the money you require and remove it from the purse with that same hand." Harry frowned as he accepted the bag and key.

"Would it be possible to have my key remade into something other than a conventional key? A ring, perhaps, that only I can wear?" he asked thoughtfully. Knowing his luck, he'd always forget his key and never have any access to his money.

Griphook looked at him curiously, then gestured to the key in his palm. "It belongs to you, Mr Potter. You are the only one who can command such a thing of it."

Harry looked down at the gold key. Presumably the goblin meant that if he could make it work, then there would be no problem. Ok, then. Command a key to turn into a ring. How? Briefly Harry thought of the power he sometimes laced his words with, but he doubted that would have any effect on the key. How do you command something that can't hear or see his orders?

With a lack of any other ideas, Harry concentrated on the key, taking note of its weight, the coldness of the metal, the way his palm curled slightly around it. He didn't gesture to the key, he looked at it carefully; he didn't speak to the key, he listened to the faint pulse of existence and magic running through it. Then he willed it to change, in the same way that he used to will his hair to grow or the plates to wash themselves when his aunt and uncle weren't looking.

The resulting ring was simple; a thin band of unobtrusive gold that seemed to blend into his skin once he slipped it on a finger, so that it was barely noticeable unless one knew what to look for. "Thank you, Griphook," he said politely, missing the stunned look on the goblin's face. "Is there anything else?" Griphook shook his head mutely, and led Harry back to Arthur and the Grangers.

* * *

Feed the muse! 


	5. Sethias

**Story Stats**

**Title: **The Killing Curse

**Timeline: **Throughout _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone_

**Summary: **The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter not mine.

**Chapter Stats**

**Timeline: **Summer before first year, late July.

**Summary: **Still in Diagon Alley, buying all sorts of good things.

**A/N: **Thank you to reviewers! Whee! Most questions should be answered, either in this chapter or the next one. Though, I haven't really considered the prophecy. Hmm, thoughts…

ESP – Imaginative euphemism of what it looks/feels like? What would you suggest? I use power or will because that's really what it is to Harry – he wants something, he wills it to happen, and voila. Or something similar. As to the other stuff – it took canon Harry a while to get to Hogwarts, so I don't think this is going _too_ slowly. And you'll find out all the other things as the story progresses… _insert evil cackle here._

Thank you to the (french) dark lord, shazia Born confused, LittleEar BigEar's sis, alwaysariyana, CharmedMilliE, Barranca, Datakim, The Wandmaker and LaughableBlackStorm for support and reviews! Yay!

_Muse: _An apparently non existent entity also known by the name of imagination, inspiration, sparks of a story that actually work rather than sound dead and flat, etc. All fuelled by reviews people!

* * *

Interlude

_Dedicated to ESP_

**Timeline:** Take your pick.

-

"Harry," Hermione began, looking up from her book with a quizzical expression. "Why is your hair long?"

"Um," Harry stalled. "Because that's the way it is?"

"It looks like girl's hair. Boys have short hair."

"Oh."

"You should get it cut. It's silly."

"Um, 'k."

"Good."

They read in silence for a while, until Hermione spoke up again. "Harry, do griffons have eggs or cubs?"

* * *

Sethias

"You wait here, Harry, Hermione," Mr Weasley said, ushering them to a shop called _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_. "Just tell her you're going to Hogwarts, she'll get you the right robes. You parents and I'll be back in a second with your potions ingredients." The two children nodded, then made their way towards the shop. Harry suspected the wizard needed to talk about something without them there.

"Hogwarts, dears?" a kind voice said. The two of them nodded "Just let me fetch the witches' robes from the back – got the wizards' robes out already for another young man." With that the squat witch turned and bustled into the back of the shop. Looking around, Harry saw a boy with a pale, pointed face being fitted at the back of the shop. He made his way over, Hermione following nervously behind him.

"Hullo," the boy said, "Hogwarts too?" He barely waited for their nods before continuing in a bored, drawling voice, "My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms – I think it's a crime first years aren't allowed to play Quidditch, don't you?" He paused suddenly, looking intently at Hermione's confused expression at the mention of Quidditch.

Seeming to make up his mind, he said formally, "I'm Draco Malfoy. You are?"

"Hermione Granger," Hermione replied quietly. Draco frowned.

"Granger? Not a name I've heard of."

"N-no, my parents weren't magical."

"Oh," he sneered, turning away from her. Harry bristled at that.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked almost savagely. The pale boy looked at him in surprise.

"She's a mu - muggleborn," he said, with a glance at the witch pinning up his robes. She glared at him, but didn't say anything. "Anyway, she doesn't know any of our customs or traditions."

"So teach her," Harry interrupted smoothly before Draco could add anything else. He paused for a moment while the blond looked at Hermione askance, a slightly confused expression on his face. "Oh, I get it," Harry said suddenly, as if a sudden idea had struck him. "You can't teach her because that would involve being with her while she was still learning. Teach me then, and I'll teach her."

"But, -"

"Oh, it's quite alright. Both my parents were magical if that's what you're worried about. I was just raised by muggles, that's all."

Draco stared at him. "Who _are_ you?" he finally asked. Harry grinned and held out a hand.

"Harry Potter, at your service." Draco gasped, and shook his hand with an expression of wary awe. The pure blood turned to Hermione then, and hesitated. After a moment's pause, during which Harry was sure that the assistant was staring at them all with shock, he extended his hand. Hermione shook it carefully. Draco dropped her hand almost before the hand shake had ended.

"I'll uh –" Draco swallowed, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. "I'll see you on the train," he finished, then bolted out of the shop. Curios, Harry skimmed his thoughts while he was still in range. He thought over what he found – the boy was thinking of his father, whether he'd get punished for what he did or praised for making a friend of the _famous Harry Potter_ – Harry barely suppressed a grimace at that. There was also a sense of glee, buried of course, that he was disobeying what his father stood for. Oh well, it was better than nothing.

Madam Malkin chose that moment to return with a bundle of robes, and was pulled aside by the second witch who whispered to her almost frantically, accompanied by much hand waving and pointing. When she was done, both witches came forwards.

"It's an honour, Mr Potter," the shopkeeper murmured as she directed him to stand on a stool and reached for the robes lying on a counter. Hermione sent Harry a confused look.

The rest of the shopping trip passed without incident – Hermione almost went to heaven when she realised there was a whole bookshop _filled_ with things she hadn't read. One shop Harry wanted to go into that Arthur seemed to miss out was _Eeylops Owl Emporium. _He decided he'd ask at the end, if he got a chance.

"Last stop then," the ministry wizard beamed. "Ollivanders, only place to buy wands." The shop was narrow and shabby, the utter silence seeming to press in on Harry and suffocate him. He could almost feel the potential for magic in the shelved boxes around him, but even stronger he knew with utter certainty that each of the wands (for they couldn't really be anything else) felt _wrong._ Wrong in a way that made him almost want to shy away from them in fear. Harry shuddered and ruthlessly suppressed the feeling.

"Ah, Mr Potter, and Miss…?" an old man greeted them in a soft voice, seeming almost to materialise from the shadows of the shop.

"Granger," Hermione supplied, sounding more assured than she had done before. Then again, the wand shop did seem more like a library even than _Flourish and Blotts_, with its (to Harry) somewhat oppressive silence.

"Miss Granger then." The old man – Ollivander, he must have been, if this was his shop – looked at Harry for a second as if he wanted to say something, then decided against it. He pulled a long tape measure out of his pocket and motioned them forwards. Harry stepped back apprehensively.

"It's ok – you go first, Hermione," he said. Mr Ollivander looked at him curiously again, then seemed to shrug mentally and asked Hermione which her wand arm was.

While Hermione was getting measured and trying out wands, Harry wandered off down one of the emptier aisles in an effort to escape the wands – not that he was very successful; even with only half of the shelves filled, he still felt afraid of the wands. He heard a crackling sound from behind him and a whoop from Jane as Mr Ollivander congratulated Hermione – Harry supposed she must've found her wand, and turned reluctantly to go back and be tested for one himself. What would happen when they realised that none of the wands worked for him? Would they send him away, telling him he obviously wasn't fit to be a wizard? Or worse, that he was a freak, an abnormality?

Or maybe one of the wands _would_ work for him, and he'd have to spend the rest of his life doing magic with a stick of wood that felt sickeningly and in every way wrong.

"Harry? Where are you?"

Harry backed away a step unconsciously, afraid of the impending rejection. His hand groped behind him for some support, and finally landed on one of the wand boxes. Harry froze,

"Harry?" Harry ignored them, entranced by what he could feel through his fingertips. Whatever was in the box felt connected to him, in a way nothing ever had before. More surprising, it was connected with every part of him, something he hadn't thought possible given that he was able to feel such conflicting emotions. He'd noticed, spending time at the Grangers, that around them he felt like an almost different person. He didn't feel as much like he wanted to hide away and have nothing to do with them, he didn't hate them or feel angry. Part of him was filled with scorn and contempt that he was being so weak, letting them into his life when he knew they took him in because he compelled them to. The other part didn't care.

Yet here was something joining them both, like a coin with two sides. On one side he felt loyalty, uplifting song and gentle power, the safety and passiveness of impenetrable defences; on the other, ferocity and cool headedness, power to fight in defence or attack, and the ability to survive in any way possible. Together they made Harry feel balanced, complete. His magic thrummed, welcoming the power and familiarity of it, and Harry smiled, content and peaceful.

"Mr Potter?" Ollivander called, and Harry jumped.

"I'm – I'm here," he answered, tugging the box off the shelf as he walked forwards to rejoin the others. "I'm sorry, I just got distracted by something," he explained, reluctant to meet their eyes.

"Ah yes, sometimes one's first meeting with their wand can do that, Mr Potter."

"My wand?" Harry asked in surprise. Then again, he should've known – this _was_ a wand shop, after all. Carefully, almost reverently, he opened the lid of his box. To him, the wand was beautiful, made of rich coloured wood. It was very simple, without any engravings or decorations like a couple of the displayed wands had, just a length of wood that whispered beneath Harry's touch as he curled his hand around it. Running through the core he felt the source of the whispering – it was almost a song when he focused on it, a thin beam of fire.

With a confident smile he settled the wand in his hand. "Definitely my wand," he clarified.

"Now, if you'll just give your wand to Mr Ollivander to wrap, we've got just enough time to go to the most spectacular ice cream I guarantee you will ever have been to…"

"Nine galleons then, Mr Potter," Ollivander said, handing over the wrapped wand. Harry dipped his hand into his linked purse, brushing the disguised ring against the lining as he did so. The purse obliged his silent command with a soft whispering sound, dropping the large gold coins into his waiting palms.

"Come on, Harry!"

"Where to?"

"Ice cream, dimmy!" Harry smiled and followed them out, running his fingers over his wand as he did so. Even through the packaging he could feel the welcoming acceptance of the wand.

He paused as they were passing a menagerie shop, and cocked his head. _:: … ::_ What was that? Harry turned around, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing – everything was as normal as Diagon Alley could be expected to be. He shook his head, and started to jog to catch up with Hermione. _:: … to me, Serpentling, to me… ::_

Harry paused again, and practically staggered to the side of the street as he almost tripped over his feet. _:: Closer, Serpentling, to me. ::_ Suddenly the press of people passing Harry seemed to overwhelm him, a choking claustrophobia threatening to suffocate him, people he never knew talking so loudly that the noise hurt his ears…

Harry gasped and fumbled behind him for a door. He closed it behind him in relief, shutting off the people and the voices, safe in the warm half light of the shop. _:: Serpentling. :: _

Harry turned to the whispering voice, looking into the darkness and shadows at the back of the shop. He vaguely noticed a whole menagerie of various magical creatures in cages or tanks, but paid them no attention as he made his way through the shop. When he reached the owner of the voice he was silent.

_:: You came, Serpentling:: _the snake hissed, spreading its hood and raising its head to Harry's eye level, scales glinting black. _:: But then, of course you obeyed. After all, what is magic but a tool for those who know how to command::_

_:: I'm sorry:: _Harry replied, and was surprised to hear his voice had taken a slithering, almost musical quality. _:: I'm not magic, I'm just a wizard. I'm not even a wizard yet. ::_

The snake regarded him intently for a moment. _:: Hold out your arm to me, Serpentling. ::_ Harry did so without hesitation, shivering slightly at the smooth feel of scales on skin as the snake coiled up his arm to settle around his neck and lift its hooded head up to his ear. _:: You are more magic than any wood-wielder, Serpentling. But beware; you know all ready that it is not always right for magic to follow commands. ::_

_:: Magic knows nothing about right or wrong, snake. You said it was a tool. ::_

_:: You are not pure magic, and yet you are not separated from it like others are. You are like the phoenix and the unicorn in that magic is ingrained and woven in your being and soul, and yet you are like me in that your magic is free, not held back by inability to harm or moral qualms. :: _Suddenly the snake bit deeply into Harry's ear lobe. He cried out and lifted a hand to bat it away, but the snake was hissing again. _:: I claim Him as mine; His magic mine only to command and His will mine only to force. By blood let it be sealed. ::_

A tingling green light flared over Harry suddenly, and he felt what could only be described as twisting _something_ where his scar was. His wand shot emerald sparks in annoyance, almost setting the brown paper it was wrapped in on fire. The light died down almost as soon as it had come, leaving Harry feeling drained and headachey. _:: What :: _He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat._ :: What did you do::_

_:: What I said. :: _The snake flickered its tongue in Harry's ear. _:: Wild magic can be manipulated; I'm sure you don't need me to tell you the dangers that poses. I simply bound your magic to me the same way a wizard binds his own to him. Oh, don't worry:: _the snake assured him, and Harry got the feeling it was laughing at him as it said it, _:: It is still your magic to use as you wish. It simply belongs to me. ::_

_:: Who are you:: _Harry asked, shocked. It couldn't be normal for random snakes to waltz in and claim magic like this, could it? Surely Mr Weasley would have told him if he needed a familiar?

_:: If you wish, you may think of me as your familiar::_ it replied, ignoring his frantic efforts to shield his thoughts suddenly. _:: Though in truth you are mine; I am your mentor, your parent, your owner, your caretaker. In simpler terms, I am Sethias. ::_ Sethias nudged his head almost lovingly towards the counter. _:: Now go and give the old fool some metal, so that we can go back to your companions. ::_

* * *

Feed the hypothetical muse! 


End file.
